At Dawn
by Elodie.Haven
Summary: She's just Marius' shadow to all of Les Amis save one. And it's that one she comes to when she's desperate for refuge one night, only to discover that she's not the only one in need of saving. Eponine/Enjolras, AU.
1. Shadow Child

**Disclaimer: Charlotte is my invention. The rest of the characters are not. I own nothing. I do not get paid for this.**

**Here it is: my first ever piece of fanfiction. I've seen the **_**Les Misérables **_**movie four times, and counting, and I just had to write this after falling in love with some amazing Eponine/Enjolras pieces. So here goes nothing…**

Rain.

There had been a time, long ago, when she had loved it, loved the caressing water on her slim, pale arms. Now each raindrop was just another icy knife thrusting into her calloused, bleeding feet.

Rain.

There had been a time, long ago, when it had washed away the mist of Montfermeil and given crisp and glimmering definition to each leaf, each stone. Now, it was naught but blinding.

By some miracle, she made it. The plain wooden door she sought looked like salvation solidified. She banged against it with her bony fists, and each blow was weaker than the last.

He opened it, luckily, after mere seconds. His eyes widened slightly at her bruises, her soaked skin. "Eponine—what—"

"Let me in," she gasped out, and he did. "I need a place to stay for the night. Please."

…

There is something about her black eyes that softens the man of marble. They are familiar, too familiar. They remind him of loving a person with a blinding and furious and unconditional passion, so different from the steady ache that loving a country brings.

"Come in. I'll draw a bath for you, you'll catch hypothermia otherwise."

He heats water, brings her a towel and a bundle of clothing. She stares with wide eyes at the paternal edge to his movements. It hits her suddenly—she's staying with a stranger, not the icily passionate revolutionary she might call a friend when she desperately needs one.

He pretends not to see the trickle of blood tracing a garish line down her leg. Her skirts turn to threads several inches above her ankles, offering him a clear view of the evidence.

He doesn't know what to say.

She, meanwhile, has unfolded the bundle of cloth he handed to her. The clearly feminine nightgown and robe haven't been touched in years, that's clear. She doesn't know how to ask, but her question is clear in the charged silence between them.

"My sister. Charlotte."

He turns to leave, and she begins struggling with the laces of her blouse. Her fingers are stiff from cold.

He surprises her with more words, clipped and dead. Free of the passion that she has come to believe is a part of him, engraved into his bones, glowing behind his eyelids and on his perfect teeth. "She was the one who cared about the people. I was the ignorant bourgeois boy who wouldn't listen. There was a widow she liked to care for, a mother with four children, I think. She'd go to them often and I'd pretend I didn't know. Our parents despaired. And then the children got tuberculosis, and she caught it, and not even the finest doctors in Paris could help her. My father wasted away. He adored her. My mother blames me, because I was supposed to look after her. I was supposed to stop her from going. But I didn't."

His face is cold, but his eyes glitter with unshed tears. "I will see the people rise and imagine her smiling from heaven."

The sound of the door closing behind him is final. A coda to the only personal words any of the regulars at the café have ever heard from him.

He has to stop himself from blinking when she steps out of his bathroom wrapped in his sister's coral-colored robe. Charlotte's molten eyes, copied, by some strange twist of fate, into the gamine's angular face, are all the more striking when her skin is clean. He's surprised by how fair she really is. The dirt protects her from the sun.

She sits down across from him at his kitchen table, where he's scribbling a speech in his notebook. His place is modest to him and a castle to her.

Wordlessly, he gets up, rummages around in his kitchen, sets a plate of bread and meat in front of her. She eats, equally silent. It's been so long since she's tasted white bread. She's glad, in that moment, that she's forgotten how to cry. The taste is so sweet it stings, and she wouldn't want to shed tears in front of her benefactor.

"The bedroom is through the door on the left. You can use my bed tonight," he says when she's finished.

She nods without looking up. "And you, Monsieur Enjolras? Would you like me to repay you for your kindness?"

He almost chokes on his own dinner. He isn't sure whether he should be glad that an impassioned Charlotte educated him on the goings-on of street rats in dark alleys. At least he catches her meaning, for all that he is clueless about women in general. But he is Enjolras, dammit, the man who can find fury in crowds of dirty faces that have long since lost hope. A girl will not take him aback. "Certainly not."

She smiles, and he finds himself strangely fascinated by the gaps between her teeth. "Why not? Ever fucked a woman, Monsieur?"

He will _not _blush.

He is about to brush her off with another curt coda, but he makes the mistake of catching her eye first, and the truth tumbles out. "Non. And I don't intend to tonight. You don't owe me anything."

She smirks and shrugs.

"I mean it. You're welcome here anytime."

He almost believes he imagines her response, it's so quiet. "Thank you, Monsieur."

Her lashes are delicate as spider's webs in the lamplight. "I'll sleep on the armchair, Monsieur, I won't let you give up your bed for me."

She's curled up there as promised before he can protest.

It's past midnight when he closes his books and crawls into bed; it's nearing one when she leaves the chair and crawls in beside him. She holds her breath when he stirs, guilty but unwilling to sleep upright on scratchy upholstery when she's used to floors and doorsteps. But he only puts his arms around her, instinctively, without waking up.

She takes in his scent and has to remind herself that she's in love with Marius.

Courfeyrac bursts into the apartment just as the sun's rising, Joly on his heels. They've got a key, of course. They both stop dead in the doorway to the bedroom, staring unabashedly at the slim form cradled in their friend's arms.

Enjolras stirs. Slowly, the presence next to him morphs from warmth to a too-thin girl. The neckline of her borrowed nightgown has slipped, revealing the slash of a collarbone and the curve of a pale shoulder. He tucks his sheets around her, protecting her long-lost modesty, and slips out of the bed, turning to face his friends.

"Well, you obviously did something wrong if she's still dressed," Courfeyrac mouths. Enjolras marches past them both and takes a seat at the table before responding.

"It's not what you think." And then, in a tone that leaves no room for argument: "Down to business."

Courfeyrac sighs before pulling out a map. "We wanted to barricade this street here, but we just got word, the people there have turned against us again. They still live in fear, Enjolras…"

He thinks of her and almost murmurs _so do I_.

He's alone, and eating porridge, when she finally stumbles out of his bedroom, dressed in her own clothes once again. She shouldn't be in those rags, he thinks, I have things of Charlotte's that I can give her…

"Little vixen," he teases, making a valiant attempt not to chuckle. "I had a hard time explaining that to the boys."

"What?"

"Courfeyrac and Joly came to discuss strategy, only to find you in my bed."

"Oh. Sorry."

He pauses, holding her gaze. "Don't be. I won't begrudge you a good night's sleep." He looks back down at his breakfast; he doesn't hear her approach, and then suddenly she's right in front of him, and she's overwhelming all his senses, and he's somehow simultaneously sinking and floating, and her lips are dry and cracked and fierce and heavenly against his.

He hasn't got a clue what he's doing, but his hands do, and they're cupping her face, tangling in her hair, dipping into the valley of her waist without permission.

It's his own breathless little gasp that brings him back to his senses.

"I thought we agreed that you don't owe me anything?" He manages to get his breathing under control once he's pushed her away.

"Who said anything about owing? Perhaps I wanted to do that. Perhaps I want _you _to repay _me _for the pleasure of my company." She's smirking.

"I thought Pontmercy was your…"

But her face has gone perfectly blank, which only highlights the agony in her eyes.

"I'm…sorry…"

Idiot, he berates himself. He would do anything just then to bring back her teasing half-smile.

"Please, Monsieur…you must tell me…" She's close to tears when she grabs his arm. "Did he…does he ever speak of me…has he ever mentioned me to you…"

The answer is clear in his silence.

"Just of Cosette, then," she whispers, and her pain is palpable.

He doesn't want to think of Pontmercy. He doesn't want to think of how annoyed he was when Marius came practically singing of being struck to the floor in breathless delight, partly because Marius was unknowingly holding a mirror to his friends' face, and partly because the boy is allowed to be a lovesick fool, while Enjolras has a revolution to run.

He remembers his moment of breathless delight all too clearly. He remembers first noticing the bedraggled little shape that was Marius' shadow and seeing only another statistic. He remembers the fool whispering something to the girl, gifting her a smile. And he remembers how her face changed with that scrap of attention, like the sun breaking through from behind the clouds.

Unrequited love makes her beautiful.

She interrupts his reverie with a choked attempt at words. "I…must go…"

"Non, mademoiselle, please. Stay for breakfast." His voice seems to him to be at once too strong and too weak.

She shakes her head, already turning away from him.

Of their own accord, his hands reach out to grasp her arm. He pushes up her sleeve and, ever so gently, brushes his fingertips against the bruises imprinted into her skin. "Please don't go back, mademoiselle." His eyes drop to where he knows she's been cut the deepest and she jerks away.

Her mouth twists. His pity is salt to her wounds.

She has already opened the door when he thinks of something that might, just might, make her stay.

"Eponine. My name is Julien." Just another thing the young men he calls his friends don't know

"Julien," she repeats, tasting the word, and they both realize simultaneously that she's not leaving today.

**To be continued. Reviews are appreciated.**


	2. Fire Child

**Thank you so much for all the interest in my story. I hope I do your expectations justice.**

**Disclaimer: The characters were never mine to lose…**

The entire café falls silent when he walks in. Enjolras is _late. _Even if their revolution doesn't make it into history textbooks, this surely will.

Courfeyrac smirks; Joly won't meet his eye.

Finally, Combeferre speaks up. "It's nearly eleven. We were meant to start half an hour ago, remember? Saturday, ten-thirty in the morning?"

"Yes, I _know_." He's gritting his teeth as he always does when he's annoyed. Charlotte used to tease him about it, just as he would joke about her habit of digging her nails into her palms in anger. "_Ich habe mich mit dem neusten Problem auseinandergestzt und habe die Zeit vergessen…"_ His German's awful, but it's sufficient for him to slip into whenever he wants to annoy his less fluent friends. Marius is off gallivanting with Cosette, no doubt, and can't translate.

There's a general chorus of "Speak _French, _idiot." He translates—"I was wrestling with our newest problem and forgot the time"—and the meeting commences.

Dusk is falling when they finish. "Joly—stay a minute," Enjolras says quietly. Something about his clipped words demands obedience.

Joly accepts Enjolras' explanation without question. "I wouldn't think you capable of it, mon ami, and you're safer from diseases this way."

The only response Enjolras can summon is a sort of choked splutter. He takes a deep breath and tries again. "I'm not sure if the bleeding's stopped. I need you to see to her."

…

She's curled up in his armchair, bent over almost double as she studies one of his textbooks. There's a deep crease between her eyes attesting to the thoroughness of her concentration.

A few hours ago, he would have been surprised to know she could read at all. He knows better now. It was her story, tumbling and tearing its way past her lips, that made him late.

He wanted so badly to touch her, her shoulder, her cheek. Bonds formed by words are far too breakable. He wants to tie her to his papered walls and rough-hewn floors, but she's a free spirit and he won't cage a bird just to hear her sing. He can't quite decide if she's more ghost or angel, but either way she's insubstantial, and he's relieved to see she's not yet turned to smoke and shadow again.

Her rueful smile turns polite when she sees Joly, whose exaggerated character makes her strangely ill at ease.

"Eponine, Joly is a medical student…" He stops when he sees her smile vanish.

"You brought a _doctor_?"

Joly steps forward slowly, palms up. "I'm not a doctor. Yet. I just want to help you."

She is about to protest, but her hand snakes to her ankle of its own accord to touch the fresh blood marring her skin. Her nod looks like a death tremor.

"I'll step out."

…

It's mere minutes before Joly comes out. "She'll be fine, Enjolras, she's been through worse. Just feed her. Keep her clean and hydrated."

He's torn apart, it seems to him, by a mixture of rage and relief, all sharp corners and tearing edges and a phantom warmth cradled in his arms.

He just nods. But the gesture is late, and Joly is gone, filled to the brim with news.

…

By the time he opens his door, he's decided to throw caution to the winds and wrap her in his arms the instant he reenters. But he's greeted by an empty room, a gently waving curtain in front of an open window.

…

He runs after her, but for all his trips to the slums he doesn't know the streets like she does. He's hopelessly lost by the time the stars come out.

Every city is simple until you start to trail your finger down its cracks and discover the worlds in-between and below. Paris is multi-dimensional. He loves it with a fervent and sleepless passion. But he does not understand it, and he never will.

Sometimes it's best to admit defeat. He learned with Charlotte that a girl is not like a country—resilient and able to survive one, two, a thousand deaths because millions more still live. He learned that either you let your iron grip on a love go, or you have her ripped from your hand and get your fingers broken in the process.

He's not quite sure what he would have done if she hadn't chosen that moment to appear.

…

"You came after me," she states simply. Is it wonder in her eyes or just the reflection of a distant star?

"You left."

"I don't like owing people."

"I don't particularly like loving people, either, to tell the truth. Not if they're prone to disappearing." He pauses. "How about you stay with me, and in repayment, you warn me before you leave?"

"Loving," she murmurs.

Never before has he had to regret letting a word slip out.

"Loving," he confirms.

…

She seems afraid of him now, but she walks right beside him, her shoulder almost touching his arm, almost as if she's afraid to let him go.

…

_Feed her. Keep her clean and hydrated. _

He gives her food and water and watches her dig in, fascinated by the way she eats, the odd delicacy to her quick, bird-like movements, the base elegance that could almost make an ignorant observer believe she hasn't been starving for who-knows-how-long.

He's making her uncomfortable by watching. He knows how to read people, and this one is a strange mix of an enigma and an open book. But her nervousness is clear, as is the way it fades only slightly when he picks up a book.

"You should probably…wash off the blood," he says quietly.

She isn't offended, interestingly enough. "Two baths in two days. A miracle."

Again, he draws the water, and then he goes looking for clothes. He kept many of Charlotte's things in a trunk in his bedroom—a hand mirror, a carved wooden bird, a half-finished piece of embroidery, her favorite books and pens. A brown wool dress that should fit Eponine.

He's imagined her in it from that very first day. But this is the first time he admits it. He wants to take care of her.

He takes all of the clothing from the trunk and heads back to the bathroom, only to stop short.

Her skirt and belt lie discarded on the floor, and she's slipped her arms out of her chemise so that it hangs from her waist. She's standing with her naked back to him, the steam coming from the bathwater a halo around her form, only half-present.

She trails her hands through the water. When she straightens again, droplets hang from each nail like diamonds, and water splatters onto the floor when she turns.

She presses both of her palms against his chest, and the water soaks through his thin shirt. He shivers.

"So warm," she murmurs, and he knows not whether she speaks of him or of the water. "So full of fire," she continues, and he has his answer. "Burn me up, Julien. Turn me to flame. Ethereal and glorious."

What a big vocabulary she has for a street rat, he thinks detachedly.

She presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth before translating her request into more mundane language. "Bathe me."

She kisses him, her lips parting slightly, and he's lost—

No. He's home at last.

**To be continued. Reviews are welcome.**


	3. Saltwater Child

**My sincerest thanks go to all my followers. And a special thank you for you lovely reviewers. Cosette-haters be warned, I'm introducing her in this chapter. I personally am a Cosette-lover, not only because she's the character I relate most to, but also because I feel we underestimate everyday heroes. Just the fact that she recovers remarkably well from her childhood trauma and grows up to be A NICE PERSON means a lot. *****end rant***

**I have never owned **_**Les Misérables. **_**I never will.**

This time, she's the one who ends their embrace.

It isn't until he wraps his arms around her and starts kissing her back that he realizes she's crying silently.

"Marius," she whispers.

He stares at the ceiling and wonders whether this deadweight inside his chest is what she feels every day.

…

Once her tears have dried, he leaves her, trying very hard not to imagine the pale silk of the water enveloping her, trailing down her pale skin and settling into the hollows between her ribs.

Her eyes are dead with suppressed emotion. She's a sealed vessel, he knows. He wonders how those tears forced their way out at all. There's a tiny but very vocal part of him that feels immeasurably blessed that it was him she broke in front of. The rest of him, a vast majority, is torn between wanting to pound Marius' face in and longing for her wry little smirk.

…

When she comes out of the bathroom, he's asleep on the chair. She reaches out to wake him, to insist he use the bed, but something about the crease between his eyes stops her.

_Loving?_

_Loving._

They both sleep beside their usual companion, Loneliness, who has become a stranger overnight.

…

She refuses to come to church with him the next day. The brown dress, made for his petite late sister, hangs from her bony shoulders. Still, he notices that her fingers trace constantly along the pleats at the waist, the cuffs, the neat and tiny stitches. He's made her happy, on some level.

He refuses to look Marius in the eye that day at the café. He doubts, somehow, that the oblivious fool even notices, caught up as he is in his idyll of a life. Enjolras speaks with a passion that now borders on fervor, remembers a girl in rags crouched in the corner with her eyes fixed on Marius' face. He speaks directly to her, she whose life he is determine to salvage. And because this is a daydream, she actually listens.

Loving someone is exhausting, he notices. He runs out of words too soon. But he's made an impression on his friends. When he walks home, he leaves behind a charged silence that somehow means more than cheers.

He's shocked, to say the least, when he finds her arranging plates onto his table. He hadn't guessed she could cook. But she can, that's evident. And he hasn't tasted actual _cooking _in years.

She clears her throat. "I thought you might be hungry. I used to be an innkeeper's daughter, after all. Some things you don't forget."

There are so many things he desperately want to say, things that get lost somewhere on the way to his mouth. All that comes out is a feeble "Yes, thank you."

…

He leaves for class while she's still sleeping, and returns just after noon. "Les Amis are meeting at the café today. I'd like you to come."

She's reading again. Her mouth forms each word on the page, but she's silent.

"Eponine?"

"Yes. I'll come."

It hits him, suddenly, that this is a very bad idea. She shouldn't be within ten miles of Pontmercy. But he doesn't want her alone there. He's losing her. Even if she was never his to lose.

…

He doesn't realize just how bad his idea is until he steps inside the café and sees that Marius has brought Cosette.

"Eponine," he says quietly, turning to block her way in. "I want you to go home. This is no place for you."

It's the worst possible thing he could have said. Her chin raises a notch. The deadness fades a little from her eyes as she pushes past him.

He watches her carefully for her reaction. She takes him by surprise again. A smile plucks at the corner of her mouth, and she begins to sing, brokenly, under her breath.

_Alouette, gentille alouette/Alouette, je te plumerai…_

None of the men hear her thin string of a voice. But Cosette does. When it's the past calling, none can help but listen. Her pretty blue eyes widen and her porcelain skin goes white.

She's perfect, down to the fingerless lace gloves she wears. But surrounded by the soundtrack of her nightmares, she is suddenly the haunted one.

Eponine smiles.

Some things never change.

But others do.

Cosette takes a deep breath, straightens the damask folds of her navy skirts. Her smile would be convincing, if it didn't contrast so much with the tears in her eyes.

"Eponine. How good it is to see you so well looked after." Cosette extends her hand, lowers it again after a moment.

Eponine only stiffens. The song has sealed her voice inside her. She wonders what has happened to her words, and wishes, briefly, for Enjolras' gift.

He rescues her. "Cosette, I take it," he says formally. "I've heard so much about you."

Cosette smiles, genuinely charmed. "Nothing too awful, I hope."

"Oh, I think we all considered wringing either your neck or his after listening to him sing your praises for hours straight. But it's nothing personal."

Eponine listens, still silent. She isn't quite sure which shocks her more: that _Enjolras _is _flirting with Cosette_, or that this actually bothers her.

And suddenly, it's all too much. Cosette's perfect smile and the demure way she folds her hands. Enjolras' voice, effortless and teasing. And Marius' eyes, fixed upon his angel. The room is spinning, and traitorous tears prick at her eyes. The faint smell of alcohol, normally pleasantly numbing, burns her nose. She whirls around, and the unfamiliar weight and volume of her skirts almost trip her. She stumbles for the door.

The hand that grasps for her wrist, stopping her, is foreign and yet hauntingly familiar. She stares dumbly at the neat ovals of Cosette's nails, glowing pink with health, and tries very hard not to remember.

When she looks up, Cosette's smile has faded and her brows are knit together. "I haven't forgotten the apple," Cosette mouths, and then lets go. Eponine has. The little scrap of kindness she once showed Cosette, the wrinkled winter apple thrust covertly into a chapped hand marred by chilblains and weak from hunger, has been completely lost in an ocean of guilt and jealousy.

Eponine makes it out the door before the first sob chokes its way out. She doesn't notice the way Enjolras watches her retreating back, the way he stares at the door she disappears through long after she's gone. Maybe it's a good thing. She wouldn't have been able to bear seeing him turn away.

…

Back at Enjolras' apartment, she tears herself out of the brown dress and wraps her own rags around her. She stares at the loaf of bread on his countertop for almost a minute before turning away, empty-handed.

She leaves a note for him on the table.

_I keep my promises. I am leaving. Do not follow me this time._

The words below that are smaller and even shakier.

_Thank you._

A single tear mars the page, the saltwater making the last few letters smear.

**Chapter 4, in which the plot (I do have one!) will emerge, will be up soon. Reviews are appreciated!**


	4. Iron Child

**I own nothing.**

She kept her promise, albeit not in the manner he had intended. So he honors her request. He doesn't follow her. It would be useless anyway. Instead, he throws himself into his revolution and forces himself to put France first again.

But he forgets all that when he comes home from the café one night and hears a choked sob while he's unlocking his door. Her clothes are more ragged than he remembers; her cheekbones look like they're about to break through her skin. She's curled up against the wall of the building, soaked by rainwater, with her arms looped around her knees and her head resting against the brickwork.

There's a wet newspaper clutched in her hand.

"Eponine." He kneels down beside her. His hand twitches toward her shoulder, but it's stopped by an irrational fear that touching her will cause her to break apart. "Eponine."

More tears trickle from the corners of her closed eyes. She doesn't answer, so he picks her up and carries her inside. She feels like a skeleton, held together only by the threads of her clothes and the embers of some fading inner fire. Her head droops against his shoulder. He can feel the pounding of her heart, he's so instinctively attuned to it, but her skin's ice.

He strips the wet clothes off her, accidentally tearing through much of the too-thin fabric in his panicked haste. He thinks his face would be crimson if he wasn't cold with fear. She's wrapped in blankets and tucked into his bed by the time her eyes flicker open.

"Julien," she whispers. She's missing another tooth. "You brought me in."

_Of course, _he wants to say, but he's so lost in relief that she's conscious and lucid that the words don't quite make it out. _Of course I will take care of you._

He wants her awake, beside him, but he can't begrudge her some sleep. She doesn't look peaceful, not quite, but she isn't in agony.

Alone at the table, he peels apart the wet pages of the newspaper until he finds what shattered her already-broken heart.

_Madamoiselle Euphrasie Fauchelevent to be in joined in matrimony to Monsieur Marius Pontmercy…_

Of course. He sets the paper down, slowly. He goes to sit beside the slumbering girl in his bed, strokes her cheek with his thumb, half-forms a few conflicted prayers, and eventually falls asleep beside her, his hand inches from her waist but separated from her by an unfathomable and unbridgeable distance.

…

He wakes up alone.

He forgot to draw his shutters last night, so his room is soaking in sunlight. He almost regrets the absence of the rain that he's coming to associate with Eponine. He knows she's gone. He can't imagine her here, in the light.

But she isn't gone. She's at the table, still nude and wrapped in blankets, with her hands enfolding a mug of coffee.

"I made coffee," she says unnecessarily. "It's still warm. Would you like some?"

"Please."

Her face is beyond calm. The deadness in her eyes has spread through her whole body. Her shoulders curl forward as though they're trying to touch.

The words spill out of his mouth unchecked and unasked for, blunt and honest and completely unadorned by finery or complexity. "Stay with me."

She almost drops his coffee. "What?"

He's on his feet, pacing, before he's fully aware of the motion. "God_dammit_ Eponine, when are you going to accept it's hopeless? He's getting _married, _for God's sake. Stop torturing yourself!" His hands clench convulsively.

She does drop his coffee this time.

He's so lost in rage that he doesn't notice how she's cowering from him, doesn't notice the shards all over or the hot liquid seeping towards his feet. "I _know_ I'm not him, but when are you going to see that I could make you happy? If you'd just let go! Why do you do it? You carry his goddamned love letters to that girl—yes-I-know-about-that—and then wander the darkest parts of the streets and night when you could be safe here with me! Why?" The last word is more inhuman roar than anything else.

He looks at her then. At the tears streaming silently down her cheeks and the way her entire body is faintly shaking. He reaches for her, and that seems to shock her into motion.

"Get _away _from me!" She stumbles back with a snarl. "Where are my clothes?"

"Eponine…"

But she's found them; the rags lie in plain sight on the chair. She throws her chemise over her head and ties on her skirt before running out, the loose laces on her blouse trailing behind her.

He wonders why he let her go for a full five minutes, then he kicks himself mentally and follows.

…

He finds her too late.

He's on one end of the alley; she's at the other, stoically silent, shoved against the wall, with her blouse torn open and her slim throat between the hands of a masked man.

He tries to shout, but his voice chokes off and neither of them hears. He tries to run, but his legs are numb and he stumbles. By the time he finally reaches her, she's started to scream.

His first punch is easily dodged, as are his second and third. Desperate, he throws himself at the man, knocking him to the ground. Eponine sinks to the floor and rolls onto her side, coughing.

His eyes fix onto the distant stars as it becomes clearer and clearer that he's losing this fight. The man is vicious, sleek, and snake-like. Enjolras hasn't physically fought anyone since grade school.

The world contracts to the sound of Eponine's labored breathing, the hard cobblestones against his head and back, the pressure of the man's knee on his chest, and the glint of a knife in the moonlight.

**Oh, a cliff-hanger. I promise, it was unintentional. Reviews would be great.**


	5. Silk Child

**I don't own any of this any more than I did when I wrote the last chapter.**

And then, abruptly, the man is gone, and Enjolras witnesses his world expand back to its entirety before focusing on Eponine, still on the floor beside him, unconscious.

He forces himself to think past the pain of all his cuts and bruises. Kneeling beside her, he feels for her pulse, which is so steady he realizes instantly that she's lulled herself into a meditative state.

He turns his head in time to see a well-dressed gray-haired gentleman pin Eponine's masked attacker to the wall. Enjolras watches, shocked and silent, as the gentleman lets the rapist go. Montparnasse, as he will later learned the masked man is called, runs.

The man rubs a hand across his forehead, weariness clear in the gesture, before meeting Enjolras' eyes. "You wouldn't happen to be a Monsieur Enjolras, would you?"

He blinks. "The same."

"My daughter described you to me. She speaks very highly of you." The man's eyes crinkle when he smiles.

Something clicks. "Cosette…"

"Cosette is my daughter, yes." Monsieur Fauchelevent says no more, instead bending over Eponine. As Enjolras did, he feels for a pulse, takes in the bloodstains on the girl's skirt. "I don't live far from here. We'll take her to my place. She may need a doctor."

"She's afraid of doctors," he says suddenly. As soon as he's spoken he realizes his words aren't true. She's not afraid, but ashamed. He feels his shocked numbness melting away, replaced by a now-familiar mix of anger, hopelessness, and hatred.

Fauchelevent only nods, seeming to sense the truth. "I think, then, that you and I and Cosette can manage between us."

…

Enjolras' first thought upon seeing the Fauchelevent home on Rue Plumet is that Eponine will love the place. She belongs there, somehow, among the mystery and duskiness of the overgrown garden, the low cottage. He realizes, quite suddenly, just how lucky he and Eponine are that Monsieur Fauchelevent stumbled upon them when he did.

Cosette opens the door, eyes wide at the sight of the broken body in her father's arms. The gentleman murmurs a few words to her, and she composes herself instantly, nodding and moving inside.

They bring her into the spare room, and then Cosette shoos out both men so that she can tend to Eponine, who fights her way back to consciousness just as Cosette is sponging the mud off her face.

"Julien?" Eponine's voice forces out the first two syllables but can't quite manage the third.

"Eponine, it's me. Cosette." A beat. "_Alouette_."

Eponine blinks, groans, and sits up, ignoring Cosette's restraining hand. "Where am I?"

"My home. Papa and Monsieur Enjolras brought you here," Cosette says quietly, soaking her sponge in a basin again. "You had a rough night."

"I remember." Eponine shakes her head. "I have to leave. I'm endangering you—'Parnasse will find me, my father will be furious, he was furious I left—"

Cosette laughs lightly. "Knowing Papa, I'd say that we'll be just fine." She pauses. "How are you feeling?"

"I'm fine." Her voice breaks. "Just a little tired."

Cosette forces her to lie down again with a gentle nudge to the shoulder. "Rest."

…

Downstairs, Enjolras and Fauchelevent converse in low voices. Enjolras' brow is furrowed and it's only with considerable effort that he keeps himself from gaping like an idiot.

"A—a convict—but…"

"I need you to know who you're leaving the young lady with. And I think it's best if she stay here for a while. Cosette can care for her."

"I'd like to take her back with me once she's a little stronger…" He stops once he realizes how that sounds. "It wouldn't be proper, would it?" If he's going to do this, he's going to do this the right way. Eponine deserves options. "I'd be happy to accept your offer."

"I'm glad to hear it. She will…"

Cosette flits down the stairs, and both men fall silent.

…

When Eponine wakes up, moonlight is leaking through the half-open shutters and turning the shadowed shapes of the furniture into things foreign and frightening.

It takes her a minute to realize it was the opening of a door that woke her.

He's standing beside her, ostentatious is his red jacket among the dulled colors of the room.

"Julien?"

He shifts guiltily upon seeing her awake. "I wanted to make sure you were alright," he whispers.

A hazy smile. "Thank you," she murmurs. "For everything."

"There's no need for that. Just promise me you won't go back there again."

She nods, and then, shakily, she extends her hand towards him, an invitation. He reaches out to wrap his fingers around her slim, cold ones.

"When I was…being attacked…" She coughs and her voice fades. "The other times, I used to imagine…he was Marius. It made…it easier. But not this time. I was glad…he was with Cosette…" Another cough. "He would never have been able to handle 'Parnasse. He would never be able…to handle _me. _I…I knew you would come."

He wraps his arms around her and lets her cry into his shoulder. This time, when he falls asleep next to her, it's with his hands twined around one of hers.

…

He visits her daily. She smiles every time he walks through the door. Every day he learns a little more about her. She heals, both inside and outside, and begins to show off her long-suppressed wit. Her laugh, he learns, sound like ringing bells.

She's come to a sort of turning point about Marius. She's not ready to love him yet, he knows, but she's inching her way towards him. And she's found friends in Cosette and her gentle father.

He's willing to wait. Seeing her reasonably happy is enough.

…

After several weeks, two coinciding events change everything. Courfeyrac greets Enjolras at the café one Saturday morning with the news of Lamarque's death. And when he visits Eponine the next day, he's told she's sick.

"Sick?" He tries to keep the panic out of his voice.

There's a line etched between Cosette's eyebrows, so it must be bad. She rushes to reassure him, asks him to come back tomorrow.

…

"Eponine?"

"Go away," Eponine moans, as Cosette hovers uncertainly at the entrance to the bathroom. "Please."

"Eponine."

The girl just wipes the vomit from her face with a borrowed handkerchief.

"Eponine, I…"

"Don't say anything, Cosette, just don't."

Cosette's face is awash with sympathy. The pity stings, but not nearly as much as the truth.

Eponine begins to cry, lost little sobs she tries to conceal by clamping her hands to her face. Cosette hugs her, looking for words of comfort that can't be found.

Eponine makes use of a few choice swear words. Finally she just comes out and says it, hoping it will ease the weight of the worry on her shoulders. It doesn't.

"I'm carrying that damned _violeur_'s child."

**Reviews are greatly appreciated!**


	6. Rose Child

**You reviewers really make my day. Thanks so much for your interest!**

**I do not own **_**Les Misérables. **_

"She doesn't want to see you." Cosette is blocking the front door. Enjolras crosses his arms and gives her his best intimidating stare. She doesn't flinch, so he softens and tries another approach.

"I need to see her. Whether she wants me to or not."

Cosette shakes her head. "Look, I'm sorry, Monsieur…"

"Julien."

She narrowly avoids rolling her eyes. "I'm sorry, Julien, but I can't let you in."

He seems to crumple. "I…I don't know what I did…"

"It's not you."

"Then why? Why won't she see me?"

"It's not my place to tell you that." She's scrupulously polite, and that just makes it all worse.

"Dammit, Cosette, I…" He's pacing back and forth across her garden. Suddenly he realizes just how rude he's being. "I apologize, Mademoiselle…"

"Cosette."

"I apologize, Cosette. It's just…I was planning…I wanted to propose to her," he admits finally.

If she is surprised, she hides it well. "Alright then," she says, moving aside reluctantly. "She'll have to tell you eventually, I suppose. She's in the kitchen."

…

When he comes in it is to find Eponine at the counter, up to her elbows in bread dough. She looks up and sees him, and her lips tighten. Silently she scrapes her hands clean before turning to face him.

"What are you doing here?" Her voice, rough from years of misuse, is even harsher than usual. "I told Cosette not to let you in."

"_Oui_, I gathered that."

She makes a noncommittal noise.

He tries again. "Cosette said…it wasn't anything that I did…I mean, it wasn't my fault you were avoiding me, but…"

"It isn't your fault." Her lips are still clamped together, hard and unforgiving.

"Then what is it?"

She turns away.

"Do I have to guess?"

Silence.

"Alright. Are you pregnant?" He curses himself silently when he sees her blanch and hears her give a small cry. He hadn't meant for it to come out quite so blunt.

Neither of them is quite sure how it happened, but a moment later she is, once again, sobbing against his shoulder. He presses his lips to the top of her head, taking in the scent of her borrowed soap, and tries to memorize the feel of her wrapped in his arms, something that can't be memorized.

"Marry me," he whispers in his ear. Dammit, what is happening to him? He used to be such a great orator. But he's completely forgotten how to make those elegant and convincing speeches. Honesty and truth are all that remain.

She draws away. "_What_?"

"You heard me." The lady's watch he draws from his pocket is the engagement gift his father gave to his mother all those years ago. "Eponine."

She shakes her head, tears still in her eyes. "I…I can't…" Jerking away from him, she tilts her face towards the window, and a low, tuneless hum escapes her throat. He grabs her arms, somehow remembering to be gentle, and forces her to face him.

"Don't run away from me again, love," he says. She looks down; he lets go of one of her arms and uses his free hand to tilt up her chin. "Eponine." His voice has gone very quiet, but she can hear every word as clearly as if he were shouting. "The barricades rise tomorrow. I may not get another chance to say this to you."

"Don't say that." Her eyes are wide. Is it Marius she fears for? Or could it be she fears for him?

"I have to." He clears his throat. "I'll care for the child, Eponine. I'll treat him or her as my own. I promise you. I…I love you."

There. He's said it. After months of feeling the words eat away at him, longing for a mere glance, the barest scrap of attention from her, he's finally said it.

She's shaking silently. "I…I thought love was supposed to hurt," she mutters.

"What?" That is _not _what he's been hoping to hear.

"I mean, with Marius, it was always…like an ache. But you…this feels good…and I…"

But he's heard enough. He crushes his lips against hers and feels her melt against him and he's exhilarant, weightless, flying.

He presses the watch into her hand and folds her fingers around it. "You haven't given me your answer yet," he murmurs into her mouth.

She gives a breathless laugh, parts her lips, begins kissing him back in earnest. "Yes, I have."

**This chapter's a bit short, so sorry about that, but I felt I needed to end it there. I am on spring break now, so it shouldn't be long before I get the next chapter written. I will also be working more on my Fantine/Valjean fic, **_**Golden, **_**so any of you interested in my writing or in that particular pairing should take a look!**

**Reviews are so appreciated!**


	7. Moon Child

**I own nothing.**

As if from far away, he hears the front door open—Valjean returning from one of his endless walks, no doubt. Julien is prepared to ignore the sound, but Eponine breaks away from him, flushing. She's smiling, though, if faintly. The watch looks so _right_ cradled in her hand. He glances down at its polished face and curses quietly.

"I'm expected back at the café in thirty minutes. I'll come back tonight, all right? I promise."

"Can I come with you?"

"_No,_" he says sharply, and she flinches away. He remembers her history of being a victim of violence, remembers what she told him about being her father's daughter, and abruptly hates himself.

"It's no place for a pregnant woman," he explains, more gently this time. "And I need to focus."

She gnaws at her lip. "Your revolution…"

"Yes?"

She seems to be struggling with what she wants to say. "You might risk your life for an ideal, but my people won't. And you can't defeat an army of thousands with fifty men and a pile of furniture."

"I don't want to hear this."

"You have to!"

"No, I don't. We've spent months planning this, Eponine, we can't fail now."

She reaches out and grabs his wrist. _I don't want to lose you, not now that I've finally been found_, she wants to say. What comes out instead is "You can't free a people who don't want to be freed."

…

Once Julien has left with a few polite words for Valjean and a smile for the young lady of the house, Cosette rushes into the kitchen and throws her arms around her friend. Eponine shrinks away from her exuberance.

"Congratulations!" Cosette beams.

"Eavesdropping is rude."

Cosette sniffs. "I was coming in to check on the bread, which you seem to have completely forgotten."

"Sure you were," Eponine tosses back, rolling her eyes. Cosette ties an apron around herself and plunges her arms into the abandoned dough.

"So let me see what he gave you," Cosette singsongs, still smiling.

"Cosette!"

"What? I wasn't spying, I swear! He must have given you something. What is it?"

Eponine grunts in defeat. "A lady's watch," she says, showing it to her, then quickly tucking it into the pocket of her borrowed dress as Cosette's father appears in the doorway.

"Everything all right, ladies?" he asks. Eponine has come to love his gentle smile.

"Fine." Cosette smiles sweetly, barely holding in her grin. "How was your walk, Papa?"

"Lovely. The weather is perfect in June."

"Yes, Father." Cosette is practically bouncing in place as she waits for her father to leave. Once he does, she bursts out with "We have to talk about the wedding!"

"On day one of the engagement? Can we take things a little more slowly? Concentrate on getting through the barricades first and all?"

Cosette goes white. "The barricades?"

Eponine glances up. "Didn't you know?"

Mutely, Cosette shakes her head, still deadly pale. "When?" Her voice is no more than a whisper.

"Never mind. Forget I said anything."

"I most certainly will not…"

"Cosette. We were talking about the wedding." Eponine jerks her head towards the kitchen doorway. The walls of the Fauchelevent home are thin, and Cosette's rising voice will scare her father. "I was thinking in autumn. I don't like the summer…"

…

The setting sun, trailing through the west-facing windows of the guest bedroom Eponine has spent weeks in, finds Eponine pretending to brush her hair while really waiting for a knock at the door. Enjolras promised he would return. She believes him the way she has never believed anyone since early childhood.

It comes as quite a shock when she hears scratching at the window. She stumbles back, her mind instantly going to her hated father and his fearful gang. But it's Enjolras, tapping on the windowpane.

She throws open the window and helps him climb inside, grateful that the house is only one story and that the overgrown garden keeps him hidden.

"Couldn't you have just come through the door?"

"And alerted Monsieur Fauchelevent that I'm visiting you after hours? No."

She smiles. "How did it go today?"

With a sigh, he runs a hand through his tangled curls. "Let's not talk politics."

"I wasn't! I asked how your day was."

"My day is politics. Come here." He sits down on the edge of her bed and pulls her down beside him. "I assume Cosette has already planned every detail of the wedding?"

The sound she makes is something between an indulgent laugh and an irritated groan. "Can you tell her to back off a bit?"

"On the contrary, I'm quite partial to the idea of her doing all the work. Has she decided on a date yet?"

Her smile widens at his eagerness. "I told her I want to wait until late autumn. I don't like the heat."

"And that would give me time to recover from any injuries."

She jumps to her feet, and he stands with her. "Don't say that. Don't you dare say that."

"Then stop me," he whispers into her ear. Once again, he's the one to initiate their kiss, but from then on, she takes the lead, guiding his uncertain hands over her newly developed curves before leading his fingers to the row of buttons down her back. Those are easily taken care of, but he's forced to let out a frustrated groan after struggling for several minutes with the laces of her corset.

"I will _never _understand women or why they insist on wearing these infernal devices," he mutters around her lips. He can almost taste the bread she baked earlier.

"Honestly, I couldn't agree more," she gasps, tearing through the laces herself. Still hesitant, he slips her chemise from her shoulders and runs his fingers along her collarbones, still too defined to be healthy. He's strangely fascinated by the texture of the scar tissue scattered across her skin, raised, rough, and slightly pale compared to the rest of her skin. He presses a kiss to what must be an old knife wound, and her breathing goes ragged.

She slips her hands under his shirt, and the shock of her cold fingers against his skin makes him start. He steps away from her. "We should wait until after the wedding. But I don't know if I'll get another chance to do this."

"I thought I told you not to talk that way."

"I thought I told you to stop me."

She complies.

...

It's past midnight when he fights his way out of a deep, dreamless sleep and is greeted by the sight of her naked limbs, silver in the moonlight, splayed across the bed. Her head is resting against his chest, her hair trailing across his body.

He stares at the subtle rise and fall of her chest for a long time, fixated by the way her eyelashes flutter in her sleep. She's cold, and draws instinctively closer to his body heat, so he gently ties her chemise onto her slim body and wraps the blankets around her.

The window squeaks when he opens it, but she doesn't stir.

…

Eponine is woken all too quickly by the sound of the bedroom door slamming against the wall. Cosette, pale as death and dressed in white, looks like a ghost framed against the doorway.

"They're gone," she cries. "And we're locked in."

**Reviews are appreciated!**


	8. Child of the Barricades, Part 1

**If you haven't figured out by now that I don't own **_**Les Misérables**_**, I am afraid that I really can't help you.**

"What?" Eponine murmurs, still half-asleep. Her hand flies to the neckline of her chemise and she shakes her head in surprise at finding herself dressed again. The uncomfortable ache, stemming from somewhere in her chest, makes her sure that Enjolras is gone.

"Papa and Julien. Both gone. Both at the barricades. And Papa's locked all the doors from the outside and taken all the keys and…"

"Wait, slow down. What makes you think Julien was here?"

Cosette sighs impatiently, but her words have had the desired effect: color is returning to her cheeks. "My room is adjacent to yours, 'Ponine, I can hear everything that goes on in here. Don't worry, Papa's a heavy sleeper." Cosette is blushing now, but she's careful to hide how scandalized she really is. At least she no longer appears to be on the verge of fainting.

Eponine is speechless. "They're…gone?"

Cosette nods. Her eyes glisten with unshed tears. "There's a note for you, look."

There is. A crumpled sheet of paper lies next to her on the pillow.

_Ma chère, _she reads, _the only thing that could take me away from you today is the promise of fighting for a world where you and our child will be secure and happy. Stay safe at home for me, and I promise I will return. Julien._

Wide-eyed, she looks up. "I have to go after him."

**This is just a filler that I wanted to post today, consider it the first part of a longer chapter that I will write tomorrow. **


	9. Child of the Barricades, Part 2

**I'm so sorry for the delay…I promised I would have this up ages ago, I know…but here it is. **

**I do not own **_**Les Misérables.**_

**Okay, so this is an AU story, meaning that I have tampered with history and kind of redone the timeline for the June Revolution: the first battle was early morning Day 1. Gavroche brought the letter to Valjean, who joined the barricade before dawn and was the first to notice the 1****st**** attack. He warned the others, and Marius saved the barricade while Eponine was still at home and asleep. They hoped to force Lamarque's funeral procession to a stop, except the soldiers simply used a different route. They hold the barricade through the night, and the final battle takes place on Day 2. The upcoming chapter starts late morning Day 1. Sorry for the confusion. **

"I'm going to have to go back to my father's house," Eponine murmurs to herself, already neck-deep in plans. "Disguise myself as a boy, or I'll never make it through the streets…"

Cosette blanches. "Isn't it dangerous?"

"So is trying to overthrow the monarchy," she says calmly, almost jumping out of bed. "Help me with my corset?"

With a little shiver, as though she's trying to shake off her fear, Cosette does as she's told. When she's dressed, Eponine opens the window and clambers out as Enjolras climbed in the night before. She's shocked to see that Cosette follows her, struggling not to tear her pretty yellow gown.

"Cosette…you should stay here…"

Cosette's eyes flash. "All the men I care about are at the barricade. And I am _not _staying behind."

The streets loom ahead of Eponine, treacherous and strangely unfamiliar. She's become spoiled in her time with Cosette and her father. _Welcome home,_ she murmurs to herself drily, and she plunges into an alleyway, Cosette beside her.

…

The boots she took from her father's old garret are several sizes too big, which makes running awkward. She struggles not to trip as she pounds down the cobblestones. Her heart is thumping too loudly in her ears—she wonders that her pursuer can't hear it.

It's just her luck that Montparnasse would be at her father's place. She barely made it through the window in time, but he saw her. Her brain is lost in a mental map of twists and turns. She left Cosette as far away from the garret as possible. Her future is composed of street after endless street.

By the time she reaches Cosette at their agreed rendezvous spot, she's left Montparnasse behind her. But it's a long time before her heart stops pounding.

Wordlessly, she holds out a bundle of boy's clothing to Cosette, who nods, pale but determined.

"Now we need to find the café."

…

Dusk is falling by the time they reach the barricade, which has been turned monstrous and foreign by shadows. Courfeyrac, taking the watch, scrambles to his feet at the sound of their footsteps and levels his gun at them.

"Who goes there?"

"Don't shoot," Eponine cries, effortlessly adopting the deeper tones of a young man. Cosette starts; her friend's fake male voice is convincing. Eponine has had quite a bit of practice. "We're volunteers."

The sleepy-eyed young revolutionary does not look convinced, until something—a gleam in Eponine's eyes, perhaps—alerts him to the fact that he's not speaking with a stranger. He almost drops his gun.

"Eponine?" His tone is comically bewildered. "_Cosette?"_

He quickly frees a passageway through all the broken furniture and waves them through. With an unceremonious kick to the side, he wakes a sleeping Marius, who blinks groggily and then shouts at the sight of Cosette.

Cosette reaches out and grasps one of his hands in hers. "I…I had to come…" she starts to explain, and then stops suddenly.

All the noise Marius made has woken Enjolras, who strides over from his lonely corner of the barricade, shoving his men out of the way. With hardened movements, he jerks Eponine's body to his own and crashes his lips against hers in a passionate kiss.

Les Amis stare, except for Courfeyrac and Cosette, who look deliberately in the opposite direction.

"What the _hell _are you doing here?" Enjolras demands, still clutching Eponine to his chest. "What part of _stay safe at home_ is too difficult for you to understand?"

She only shakes her head. "My home is not where I depend on Monsieur Fauchelevent's charity. My home is wherever you are. If you fight, then I will fight with you."

He rests his forehead against the top of her head in mock despair. In truth, her words make him feel invincible. It's not a particularly good way for him to feel when he's about to face an army of thousands with fifty men and a pile of furniture.

"Hey, 'Ponine!" Gavroche's boundless energy destroys the quiet peace of their moment.

"Gavroche?" Eponine narrows her eyes. Enraged, she turns to Enjolras. "You're letting a _little boy_ fight with you?" Her voice has turned to a dangerous hiss.

"He's more useful than the rest of them put together," Enjolras mutters, defensive.

"He's my _brother_," she counters.

He starts. "You have a brother?"

"Three. My parents sent them all away. I don't know what happened to the other two," she explains under her breath, all in a rush. "And Azelma, my sister, she ran off. I would have gone with her, except my father was with me that night, and after she left he really clamped down on me. 'Zelma's probably at the docks somewhere now. I haven't been able to find her."

He can't quite find the right response. In the end, he settles on a quiet, "I'm sorry."

Just then, there are shouts. A spy is returning. Eponine can sense at once that the man can't be trusted, and wonders that Enjolras doesn't see it. Gavroche's frown confirms her suspicions.

"Julien—don't trust that man—"

But Gavroche beats her to it. "LIAR!"

"You see what I mean, he's useful," Enjolras mutters. "Spying, carrying messages, that sort of thing. I'll keep him out of the actual fighting."

There's real trust hiding behind her casual nod.

…

An hour later, he's nodding off while seated in a little niche in the barricade. Eponine lies beside him, curled into a loose fetal position with her head resting against his chest and his arm slung around her shoulders. He made a valiant effort to coax her into one of the two abandoned beds in the one of the houses, but she refused vehemently, and Cosette followed her lead. The blonde now sits in another crevice, leaning against an overturned cart and holding Marius' hands with one of her own while her vexed father clutches onto the other as one would a lifeline.

Eponine's breathing slows. Even after only an occasional night beside her, he's so attuned to the sound of her breaths that he can tell at once that she's asleep. He watches Cosette, at her father's urging, stumble tiredly into the building on the left, headed for one of the bedrooms in the floor above. He waits a minute before picking up his fiancée and carrying her into the other.

She wakes as he tucks the sheet around her. With her dark eyes wide, she watches him turn towards the door.

"You mean to spend the last night before your war alone?" He starts at the sound of her voice; he hadn't realized that she was awake.

"We're expecting an attack anytime—"

"Fuck that. Better yet, fuck me."

Slowly, she sits up and gives a sleepy smile. "Your fatalistic attitude ended up with me having the best night of my life last night. I thought I'd give it a try."

Frozen in the doorway, he finds himself smiling in spite of herself. "Truly? The best night of your life?"

She seems to find his comment amusing. "Of course. Did you really think any of my clients ever gave me pleasure? Did you really think I ever fell asleep in their arms and felt—"

She chokes off, and before he's fully aware of the motion, he's sitting down beside her on the bed.

Their first night together was soaked in hesitation and an indescribable sweetness that stung in its perfection. Their second night is seeped in an urgency that borders on panic, slick skin dripping sweat, harsh breathing, scrabbling nails, passion heightened by the knowledge that the chances of their little family surviving intact are slim to nonexistent.

Their grasping hands entwine on the mattress beside her thrown-back head.

…

Les Amis think that Grantaire, alone and slumped over a table in the café, is asleep. They're wrong.

The sound of the passion in the bedroom above is agony to him, but he can't turn away.

…

He falls asleep in the murkily warm June air long before she does. With her bare limbs tangled with his, her head tucked under his chin, his hand on her hip, his arm thrown across her narrow torso and her brown hair mingling with his blonde curls, she memorizes the shadowy patterns in the ceiling and tries very hard not to think about tomorrow, while failing to think of anything else.

…

The sun hasn't risen yet when Combeferre knocks on the door. Struck with a strong feeling of déjà vu, he dresses a sleeping Eponine in her too-big shirt, puts on his own clothes, and pads silently out of the room.

…

She wakes to the sound of gunshots and shouts, and the sight of Cosette, wide-eyed, in the doorway.

"Again?" she mutters sleepily. Cosette nods.

"We're locked in. And the windows are all painted shut. What are we going to do, break one?"

"Good idea."

…

Eponine's breath catches in her throat. The world outside is on fire. The screams drifting through the walls can't possibly be human.

Cosette sinks to the floor and sobs silently into her hands. Eponine presses her scarred fingers against her swelling abdomen, torn between maternal instincts and a love so fierce it's tearing her apart inside.

Both women stay frozen as the world outside falls silent.

…

At some point, Eponine loses the power to think rationally. Torn apart by something she can only identify as rage, she uses an abandoned poker to shatter a window and crawls out, broken glass tearing at her skin.

Monsieur Fauchelevent stands gray and silent, seemingly the lone survivor. He turns, and Eponine sways on her feet as a blood-soaked Marius, cradled in his arms, comes into view. A weak moan sounds from behind her, and Eponine starts. She hadn't realized that Cosette has, once again, followed her out through the window.

She thinks she must be hallucinating when she hears shouts and gunshots through the open second-story window of the café. Without ever making a conscious decision to move, she sprints and stumbles towards the broken door, hanging off its hinges.

Cosette stares at her father, unseeing. "Marius?" Her whisper is as broken as her beloved's body.

Her father jerks to life. "The sewers. I can—"

"I'll take him. Go after Eponine. Bring them home."

…

Adrenaline giving strength foreign to her delicate lady's body, Cosette lays Marius' arm across her shoulders and begins, painstakingly, to drag her fiancé away. Her father's instructions ring through her ears.

_Keep going left until you find an exit. Then follow the river home._

Marius' head lolls against her neck.

…

As Cosette disappears into the shadows of the sewers, Eponine is taking the stairs up to the second floor of the café two at a time.

The eight soldiers, resplendent in their National Guard uniforms, face away from her. Enjolras' gaze is caught up in the flag he clutches, so it's Grantaire who meets her eyes, and she would have staggered to a stop if her momentum weren't carrying her forward.

_So our twisted little love square was a love pentagon all along. And you were the only one to end up alone._

But there's no self-pity in his eyes, only resolve. They both nod once in acknowledgement of their shared purpose.

The world turns to smoke and fire. Eight bullets Grantaire intercepts with his own body, as Eponine throws her body against Enjolras'. The two lovers fall in a tangle of limbs and lives.

…

The awning under the window slows their fall but doesn't stop it, and when they crash to the floor, she takes the brunt of the impact. They both hear the sickening snap. Instinctively, she cradles her broken arm to her chest, but she doesn't feel any pain yet.

For a moment, they both concentrate on the feeling of the cobblestones, warm from the midday sun, pressing against their skin. Then the sound of shouting jerks them unpleasantly to their senses, and they're up and running.

"The sewers," Eponine hisses, and Enjolras only nods tightly.

…

The bullet barely grazes her leg, but Eponine feels an impact more staggering than the one caused by her fall from the window. She hears a distant scream and thinks _Cosette! _before realizing it's her own.

…

The sewers, in their brooding depths, silently embrace the golden-haired girl and boy, the exhausted former half-dragging her unconscious fiancé while the detached and emotionally dead latter cradles the bleeding form of his beloved against his chest.

The exit all four seek seems a thousand miles away.

**Wow, that was a long chapter, and it's a little all over the place, sorry about that. But please leave a review telling me what you think!**


	10. Child of the Sewers

**So I took a few liberties with Javert's suicide, as well as his character in general. From this point on, the story pretty much loses all semblances to canon. You have been warned.**

**I got so many reviews last chapter, which was super exciting. Please keep it up!**

**I do not own **_**Les Misérables. **_

Had she the energy, Cosette would be sobbing. As it is, only a few tears manage to make their way down her cheeks.

_Where are you, Papa? You promised you would come after me! You promised you would be here. Where I go, you will be…_

She fears the worst.

…

The answer to her question is: on the staircase, staring at the blood of the man he spent too long hating and fearing, splattered across the walls. The soldiers who rushed downstairs at the sound of the gunshot took the body of Inspector Javert while his prey hid, and now Valjean stands at the foot of the steps, frozen.

…

_Why didn't she tell me? I would have married her. I would have stayed with her! _But the woman Javert had, in his own way, loved—the woman he had slept with once in a night of drunken fervor—had chosen instead to construct a story about a dead husband and flee deep into Paris once she could no longer deny the existence of the child in her womb.

She—Marie—gave birth to twin boys surrounded by filth and squalor. She went the way nearly all such women do, and gave bore two daughters with nameless, violent fathers, before her body weakened enough to prevent more unwanted pregnancies.

Years after her death, Javert found out about the bourgeois girl died doing her best to help Marie, and the handsome young man who cared for the one surviving son in the name of his sister. The boy died anyway, but Javert was in unresolved debt to the blonde revolutionary facing down eight guns upstairs.

He owed both a convict and a traitor. He could not bear to shoot down either. It seemed simplest, really, to press the gun to his own temple and end his unfulfilled life.

…

It's no longer possible for Cosette to convince herself that she's imagining the footsteps echoing down the sewers behind her. Her breathing is harsh, labored, and she's bordering on tears again. The men who infest this underground world can hear her from a mile away. And it's not as though she would have a prayer of either running or fighting even if she weren't dragging what's most likely a corpse by now.

"Marius," she whispers. "Marius, wake up, please wake up…"

Marius' body crumples further against her.

…

Detached from everything, Jean Valjean stumbles forward through the knee-high sewer water. _Cosette,_ he thinks. _Cosette._

…

"Eponine," Enjolras hisses, his voice echoing too loudly through the tunnels of blackened brick. "How many survived?"

She presses her lips together and turns away.

"Eponine!"

A tear trickles down her cheek. "Marius. Cosette. Her father," she murmurs, voice cracking. He staggers, and Eponine almost slips from his arms. It takes him a minute because of the gloom, but when he looks down at her, he realizes that the blood soaking her trousers does not stem only from her leg wound, and he starts forward again, faster than before.

…

"Cosette!" Enjolras shouts. Cosette's scream trails off suddenly as she darts a terrified glance behind her, only to see her friends.

"What happened to her?"

"Bullet to the leg. I'm staunching the bleeding. But…she's miscarrying."

"Hurry."

…

Jean Valjean catches up to the four of them just as they reach the exit. Eponine forces out directions, and they sneak through back streets and alleyways, coated in blood and filth, until they reach Rue Plumet.

…

Enjolras scribbles down the name of a doctor who can be trusted to use discretion when treating criminals, and Jean Valjean goes after the white-haired bespectacled man. Cosette, despite all her good intentions of staying beside Marius, collapses as soon as she's through the door, and Enjolras carries her into her bedroom once Marius is laid out on the kitchen table and Eponine is in her bed.

The doctor is skilled and efficient. By the end of the night, Marius' condition has been stabilized, his wounds and infections all treated. Eponine's arm is in a sling and her leg is tightly wrapped in bandages. Enjolras paces up and down the hallway outside her room as the doctor sees to the baby.

Enjolras buries his face in his hands when the elderly man comes through the door. No words are needed, but the doctor speaks anyway.

"Your wife will recover, Monsieur, but I'm afraid to say the child is dead." The man's hands are red with blood, and the rest of him blurs out of Enjolras' vision, until all he can see is that garish red. _Not the child. Not the child. Not the child, too. Not when all my friends are dead. _Their faces flash before his eyes. He led those men to their deaths, and Women in agony are mourning those men. "She's suffered significant internal damage. She will not be able to bear you any children."

From very far away, he hears himself carry out a meaningless conversation with the doctor. Once the man has left, he drags himself into the bedroom and takes Eponine's icy hand in his.

Tears trail silently down her cheeks. He takes her into his arms, and they sob into each other's shoulders.

**This was a bit depressing, but I have some sunshine and rainbows planned for the next chapter (or at least the one after), so please bear with me.**

**Reviews are appreciated!**


	11. Gold Child

**I do not own Les Misérables.**

**So, you know how I messed with history two chapters ago? Well, now I'm messing with geography. England in my story is further away from France than in real life, and the journey by ship between the two countries takes about a week . Sorry about that.**

The days pass, and Eponine and Marius grow steadily stronger. It isn't long before Cosette is helping Marius to walk through the garden with her arm braced against his back, and although each step takes phenomenal effort, he can't help but smile. Cosette has grown into her nickname, Lark, once again; she sings to herself in a sweet soprano as she cooks and cleans and mothers them all.

Eponine stays indoors. She's dropped all the weight she gained under Cosette's care, and she's swimming inside her borrowed gowns. She favors the seat underneath the window in her room; she sits and stares out at the sun-soaked yard and worries at the cuff of her dress with shaking fingers. Enjolras reads out loud to her, hour after hour, to keep the ghosts at bay.

…

It's weeks before Eponine unintentionally smiles at something Cosette says. That same day, Marius makes the trip around the garden without Cosette's help.

That night at the dinner table, Monsieur Fauchelevent clears his throat and brings up the topic of England.

"Wanted men cannot stay here under the police's noses," he says. Cosette misses the significant look the three men share, but Eponine doesn't.

They decide unanimously and without discussion. It's time to leave France.

…

"So what was that all about?" Eponine looks somewhere off at the floor as she speaks. Enjolras stands in her doorway, pale and colorless as a wax doll.

"What was what all about?"

"You and Marius and Monsieur Fauchelevent were acting like there's some big secret."

He sighs, and tells her everything. Her face goes perfectly blank, an indication of shock.

"He wanted to go to England alone after Cosette's wedding. But then the two of us came along and complicated matters…I can't stay here, because of the police and everything, and you can't stay here, because of Patron-Minette. So Marius and I managed to talk him out of going." Enjolras paces as he explains.

"Good. It would be cruel to separate him from Cosette. He adores her."

"And she him." He pauses. "So…England."

"England." She tastes the word.

"We'll get you your own clothes there," he promises. Her tiny form is lost in the dresses meant for someone ten centimeters taller. But they can't risk a trip outside—his visit to the bank to withdraw his considerable funds was terrifying enough—, and he knows instinctively that she would refuse to leave the house anyway. "Do you speak English?"

She shrugs, half-embarrassed. "A little. I learned when I was a child, and afterwards I tried to remember…"

"I can teach you."

He does his best in the following days. Their ship sails before the week is out.

…

On the first day, Cosette stays below deck and is violently seasick, but Enjolras can't drag Eponine down into the cabins. Wind nipping at their hair and clothes, the two of them stand at the bow and stare at the horizon and feel a huge weight being inexplicably lifted off their shoulders. He stands behind her with his arms wrapped around her waist and his lips in her hair; the older passengers watch them and their seeming harmony, and smile.

Starting on the second day, the two couples spend every possible minute out in the fresh air. Cosette experiments with Eponine's hair and chatters on about fashion and flowers and wedding plans; she gets both men to laugh, and Eponine to blush, with stories about Eponine's antics as a child. Marius recounts everything he's read about their destination, and Enjolras brings up heavy English books and has Eponine read out loud. Endlessly patient, he translates, explains grammar, and helps her with her pronunciation.

Slowly but surely, the bruise-like shadows under Enjolras' eyes fade, and he stops listening for phantom footsteps or feeling ghostly hands on his shoulder. Unable to further burden Eponine, he turned to Cosette one evening back in Paris, and she held him while he sobbed out his rage and guilt before reassuring him that it wasn't his fault, he'd done everything he could, he hadn't led his friends to their deaths, he had made a difference. Her words finally start to take effect—an effect strengthened by the quiet reassurance of Eponine's hand in his.

"He died a hero's death," she says of Gavroche one day, and he's finally on the path to recovery.

Eponine loses her post-miscarriage pallor. Marius gains back the weight he lost during his convalescence. Cosette is lovelier than ever and practically aglow with love.

…

Jean Valjean stands at the stern, staring at the unbroken horizon line where France used to be and imagining himself back to the hospital in Montreil-sur-Mer. Seeing his daughter find love only reminds him of the romance that was crushed before it could begin. To distract himself from the still-present guilt and pain of Fantine's death, he imagines how happy she would be to see her daughter grown up and beautiful and ecstatically in love. How proud she would be of Cosette.

He wonders what she would make of Eponine. He didn't know her long enough to be sure whether she would be as forgiving as her daughter, but he cannot imagine someone so deeply defined by maternal love hating someone as fragile and haunted as his daughter's one friend.

He can almost feel her fragile little hand in his aged one.

…

It takes them a while to find the three small townhouses, but when they do, they all know at once that they've come home. Cosette will stay with her father at the small on the left until the wedding, when she will move in with Marius next door. Eponine and Enjolras take the beautiful white cottage on the right, and no one comments on the impropriety.

…

They spend another few days at their hotel while they furnish and ready the houses. Eponine hums to herself as she hangs up curtains and scrubs floors, and Enjolras drags the practical furniture into neat arrangements. Cosette and Eponine make arrangements to visit a dressmaker.

Seated in the bedroom, Eponine brushes through her hair meticulously that night. She's obsessive about this ritual—she's trying to clear out the blood and smoke and sewer water that cling to her soul, even though she scrubbed them off her body long ago.

She waits for Enjolras, but he doesn't come. Finally, she gives up and wanders into the living room, looking for him, clearing her throat loudly when she finds him lying on the sofa.

"What are you doing?" She cocks an eyebrow, and he starts because of how many times he's seen that expression on Gavroche's face.

"I won't share a bed with you until we're married," he explains calmly, standing up.

"You didn't have these qualms before…"

"…Before the barricades, when I didn't know if I would survive the week."

She only shrugs and slips casually out of her nightdress. Being as sensual as possible, she runs her hands over her own body.

He looks away deliberately.

Undeterred, she kisses the base of his neck and tangles her fingers into his hair, pressing her body against his.

"Well, I tried," he mutters, and she grins viciously in triumph.

…

She wakes up to find herself using Enjolras' head as a pillow. He's awake, and his fingers trail up and down her spine with a feather-light touch. She stirs against him, and he smiles, leaning towards her.

Their kiss is interrupted by a brisk knocking on their front door.

"Cosette," Eponine mutters.

He laughs. "Better not keep her waiting. She's a force to be reckoned with."

…

She also has very good taste in clothes. Eponine, who has no experience whatsoever in picking out fabric or designs, finds herself very glad of her friend's expert opinion once the dressmaker has taken her diminutive measurements.

"Cosette," she says suddenly, while Cosette inspects a length of pretty emerald velvet, "Why do you not hate me?"

Cosette seems genuinely surprised. "Why on earth would I hate…oh." Her eyes widen. "Oh, Eponine, of course I forgave you for that long ago. It wasn't your fault. How could you have known any other way?"

"I was vicious."

"Many children are. It doesn't matter. I'm just glad to see you happy with Julien. Marius can be a bit dense sometimes, as much as I love him."

Eponine winces. "So you noticed too? That I followed him around like a lovesick puppy?" A few months ago she would have been utterly unable to imagine having this conversation, but now it feels natural, even good.

"I think everyone did," Cosette says gently. She turns back to the fabrics, running her slim white hand over some airy blue material. "This is nice," she murmurs, distracted.

Eponine has one thing left to say. "Thank you."

"Whatever for?"

"For everything." She clears her throat. "I've never really had a friend before."

Cosette smiles. "Neither have I."

…

October is a good month for a wedding, Eponine decides.

And it is. Cold, but good. The dirty and crowded seem like a fairy city to her as she steps into the church in the white satin gown Cosette chose for her. Deceptively simple at first glance, it sports delicate lace at the sleeves and intricate embroidery at the neckline. It's beautiful. She's beautiful.

There are six people in the little chapel: the priest; Jean Valjean, old and gray and smiling; and a beaming Cosette, with her hands twined around Marius'—a sight that fills her with joy instead of sharp slashes of agony.

She dances in the warm marble arms of her husband in the golden glow of a dozen candelabras.

**Yay, a slightly uplifting chapter! Hope you all enjoyed it! The next one will probably be the last, but I'm not sure yet.**

**Please review!**


	12. Bittersweet Child

**The final chapter is up! **

**I do not own Les Misérables.**

They wait until spring for Cosette's wedding, and they fill the church with flowers—lilies and white roses, her favorites. She pins ribbons and rosebuds into Cosette's hair and squeezes her hand as she explains the wedding night. She hugs Marius beforehand, and her smile is real.

How far she's come.

Cosette looks like she's about to burst with happiness. Marius' eyes glisten and his smile is huge. But Cosette's father, Eponine notices, looks more exhausted than happy. Somehow, she isn't surprised when he collapses. She's able to remain calm, to find a carriage to take him to the hospital, even as she feels certainty sink in. It's too late.

He presses and a letter a kiss into Cosette's hand, and dies smiling and crying and reaching out for someone none of them can see.

_Fantine twines her fingers around his and kisses his cheek with a smiling mouth, and he sees that she has a full set of pearly white teeth again. The tears on his face might as well be tears of joy. How many years she's been watching him, falling more in love with him and with their daughter each minute. How many years he's waited. How many years they now have in front of them. Uncountable years. Infinite years._

Cosette's keening fills the hospital. Marius holds her shaking body tightly as he sobs. Eponine cries silently. Enjolras reaches for her hand as he mouths a prayer and feels a tear trail down his marble cheek.

Eventually, they will leave, the four of them, bound by something transcending guilt and grief and loss.

…

They should have known, they will say later, that it was all too good to last.

In two years, one month, and three days, Cosette will fly into Eponine's kitchen with her cheeks flushed and her hair in disarray. She will be half-crying and half-laughing as she squeals that she's pregnant. She and Marius will have been trying to conceive for a seemingly endless period of time. She will have an enviably easy pregnancy. She will be healthy, glowing.

In two years, nine months, and eleven days, she will wake up bleeding, and a bone-pale and panicked Marius will mechanically go through the motions of taking her to hospital.

A few hours later, she will lie silent and still as a newborn's cries fill the bustling old building.

Surely, if he had stayed to see his child, to feel her tiny hand grasp his finger or to see her shockingly familiar blue eyes open, things would have been different. But he will not stay. And in two years, nine months, and twelve days, Marius Pontmercy will have thrown himself into the Thames, and Eponine and Enjolras will have the child they have always wanted.

On the day of her christening, they will give the beautiful little Euphrasie Charlotte a locket engraved with the phrase _L'Amour Triomphe de Tout_.

**I KILLED COSETTE…*goes off to cry in the Corner of Shame *…okay, I'm back, time for a little explanation.**

**I just want to reiterate that I love Cosette—she's my favorite character, in fact—and I totally believe that she deserves her happy ending, but this play is called **_**Les Misérables,**_** after all, not **_**Les Joyeux**_**, and the imagine of the four of them skipping off into the sunset just didn't cut it for me. **

**Anyway, I hope you enjoyed reading this at least half as much as I enjoyed writing it. So ends my first piece of fanfiction. Please do review!**

**I now need to finish my Fantine/Valjean fic, **_**Golden, **_**and possibly consider expanding it beyond plotless fluff…or maybe not. Please, please, please: I know Fantine/Valjean isn't a popular pairing, but do go take a quick look, and leave a review for me. It means a lot. And feel welcome to check out my Tumblr blog (thosewhodontweep)**

**Also, I really wasn't planning on doing this, but if anyone wants an epilogue with some fluff and stuff like that, please do let me know!**


	13. Epilogue

Hey everyone:

First of all, thanks to everyone who stuck with me and reviewed, followed, or favorited, especially ElevensSweetie16 for all the constructive criticism and RainWillMakeTheFlowersGrow for all of the support of both _At Dawn _and _Golden. _

I wanted to address my Guest reviewer, since I can't PM him/her: it is quite possible for Cosette to die in childbirth, this is the 19th century after all, childbirth was dangerous and deaths were common. And Marius is ready to commit suicide after talking to Cosette once and then hearing that she's moving to another country (Do I care if I should die/Now she goes across the sea/Life without Cosette means nothing at all), I felt this would be his natural reaction to her death after they've actually got to know each other and everything.

I've had a few requests for an epilogue, which I have now written and posted as a separate story under the title _L'Amour Triomphe de Tout_, because I really consider _At Dawn _finished, but I couldn't resist writing a little E/E fluff and giving you all a glimpse at Euphrasie…so please take a look!

-Elodie


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